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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29361561">the riches of the poor</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/kentuckycocktail/pseuds/kentuckycocktail'>kentuckycocktail</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>this friend [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Nirvana (Band)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, Fame is shit, Jealousy, Mild Smut, Purple Prose</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 04:27:39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,277</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29361561</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/kentuckycocktail/pseuds/kentuckycocktail</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Kurt Cobain/Original Female Character(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>this friend [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2194059</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>the riches of the poor</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>kurt is recumbent by the hearth. the fire is long gone out, smouldering into watercolour embers of red and yellow and black as ribbons of smoke persist in grabbing at the pure air of the room. she watches him from the couch, the fabric of the seat too-tactile beneath her fingers as she leans forward to check his chest still rises and falls in time with the ticking of the clock above the mantel. <em>tick, tick, tick </em>it crows, louder and louder with each second of silence, each second kurt slips further into sleep. she considers nudging him awake but there's a slight of peace on his face that seldom surfaces, and taking that in like savouring the dregs of a coffee you know you'll never make that nice again seems all the more worth her while than pestering him to bed. </p><p>          the remnants of the night languish on the table: glasses of wine with a shallow slosh of the saccharine chardonnay left, the skinny, white rolls of unfiltered cigarettes crushed and corrupted at the end, acrid smoke still spiralling up from the glass ash tray. she slips the metal cigarette case from kurt's jacket, slung on the back of the armchair, and takes another, lighting it up with the flame going from the candle which fills the room with a fading scent of sandalwood and patchouli; musky, like a sweet sort of aftershave. kurt hums in his sleep, a hand coming to rest on his chest, some of his fingers concealed within his breast pocket. He smiles. she watches him between the gaps in the cloud pluming from her mouth, shrouding his face like a translucent veil. her beautiful kurt - abstruse, and capricious, even so. how she worries for him, how she wants him to not feel like jagged eggshell whenever she held him, how she wishes the upwards tug on his rouge lips were there more often. and, how she wishes her eyes didn't sting whenever she looked at him with no pretences, no fear of another perceiving her reactions.</p><p>          the next morning the low-hanging sun of summer's dawn rips through the window of their bedroom; neither of them remember having gotten there the night before. regardless, she woke with kurt's lips against her throat, lithe arms around her waist. she brings her fingers to the taut muscle of his freckled arms, brushing gently along the surface, the other hand sifting through the waves of his fair hair. the touches stir him, shivering beneath the familiar iciness of her fingertips, looking around the room as if gaging his surroundings. his searching eyes finally land on her, and the afeared drowsiness vanishes from his face. </p><p>-</p><p>the antique shop leaves an impression of beige. there's little overwhelming color to it besides the individual knick-knacks donated by loyal patrons, washed out lavenders and blues bleached sea-foam by the sun. the clerk behind the counter is unobtrusive as they browse, running fingers over dust-laden objects that had probably touched a million unexciting lives, and were not about to be passed off into theirs. </p><p>          'it's ugly,' kurt whispered, palming a miniature chest with delicate golden swirls detailing the outer edges. it glints dully in the low light of the room, winking lethargically at her. 'all of this stuff. there's some books I think you'll like.'</p><p>          she smiles at him, manoeuvring the box from his hands to open it, revealing nothing, only sanded wood and stray splinters. 'like what?'</p><p>          'they're all old, and faded. notes around the edges. highlights. very loved, very personal.'</p><p>          she kisses his cheek, aware of the young girl loitering by the arm chairs on sale watching them with envy. she wonders if people are already recognising kurt--surely not, she thinks. but, there he'd been on the tv that morning, there'd he'd been on the radio. 'you know me well.'</p><p>         and even then she wonders how long much longer such a sentiment would, could, hold true.</p><p>-</p><p>having sex with him was tantric. usually. eyes linger on them from somewhere--was it the girl from the antique store? the ones that leered into the windows when they'd stopped at the lights? they were wearing shirts with his artwork on them. she'd tried to mention it. kurt hadn't responded. </p><p>         they keep going, going, the impersonal white of the sheets piled up around them much akin to the slopes of their bodies writhing atop one another. she slows down when she gets on top, still distracted, still watched. was the girl at the store, the people at the lights, wondering about this very thing right now? were they picturing themselves in her position, his position? </p><p>         'what's wrong?' </p><p>         he's lifting her off of himself, settling her back on his thighs clumsily. she grapples at the sheets, a thousand miles away. 'yeah, fine. do you want me to do something different?'</p><p>         'I want you to enjoy yourself,' he shrugs with a lift of his mouth. impish, loving, concerned. she leans down to kiss him but he stops her. 'no. not until you've told me what's up.'</p><p>         her crotch nudges the rest of her body in frustration. she shakes it off. 'I just feel self-conscious.'</p><p>         'what?' he crows. he snakes his hands up her waist, squeezing the dips, the softest parts. 'looking like you do?' </p><p>         he teases, but of course he understands. he lets her go and shuffles onto his side, bucking her onto the cold mattress in the process. </p><p>         'not of my body,' she admits once they've settled to face each other, her pushing strands of his hair (it was deep brown at the very ends, still, blond growing furiously, indignantly, from the roots) out of his visage. 'people look at you, kurt. they know you. they think they know you.'</p><p>         'I know.'</p><p>         it's quiet, still, empty. he kisses her knuckles, dried and red and cracking. it embarrasses her, her broken hands. she tries to say what she can't articulate in any intelligent, meaningful way with her eyes, but he still looks at her with inquisition. she knows he understands the nuances of her eyebrows moving this way and that, each way she widens and lifts her eyelids to communicate to him a message she couldn't say in a crowded room, for instance--a crowded room was growing a more common staple in their time together, these days, and their time apart. her body flinches at something, at the thought, perhaps.</p><p>         'what's it like?'</p><p>         'terrifying. exhilarating. it depends who you come across. today it was scary. those guys looking in the car as if they were gonna jump us.' </p><p>         'the girl in the antique store pissed me off more,' she mutters, flicking her eyes down to the creases in the sheets, buckled around a paint stain of purple. </p><p>         'well, she was like, thirteen, for a start.' </p><p>         she laughs despite herself, wholly and fully, and he joins in. they laugh, laugh, laugh, until the neighbor punches the wall above their mattress on the floor and tells them to quit the cackling. she throws a glance over her shoulder to look at the time reflected in a bleary red on the ceiling. two a.m., nearly. she can hardly remember the day, time slipping away and away and away. </p><p>         'you have me, right?' he tells her, serious all of a sudden. it's jarring, the hardness in his eyes. 'you've got me. I'm never gonna jump out of the car and suck someone off just because they're wearing my stupid shirt.'</p><p>         she sighs, conflicted. 'I don't... I like that they're wearing your stupid shirt, alright? but, thanks. thank you.' </p><p>         'yeah?'</p><p>         'yeah.'</p><p>         they resist the tight ball of laughter in their throats, scoffing into their hands. </p>
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